Stardust
by Bookworm213
Summary: England is the sky, America is the star. England is the sea, America is the boat. But the star has left the sky; the boat has sailed away. England is okay with that as long as he has America's stardust to remember. From the Revolution, Manifest Destiny, and Apollo 11, England collects the precious few objects America has left in his wake, but England is okay with that, really.


**STOP! Before you read this open a new tab, pull up the song Boats and Birds by Gregory and the Hawk and play it as you read. That's how I wrote it, I teared up a little, and when I read it through I cried. Hopefully you're made of tougher stuff that I am. But seriously, if you want the full effect, do that. This is not intended slash but I guess if that's what you want to see it as I can't stop you.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia or Gregory and the Hawk or the song Boats and Birds.**

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**Stardust**

_If you'll be my star, I'll be your sky._

_You can hide underneath me and come out at night._

_When I turn jet black and you show off your light,_

_I live to let you shine; I live to let you shine._

_But you can skyrocket away from me._

_And never come back if you find another galaxy._

_Far from here, with more room to fly,_

_Just leave me your stardust to remember you by._

A rabbit. A stupid stuffed rabbit is all that was left. Thrown at his feet as America walked away from him to a place where he could stretch his wings as far as they would go and fly away from him, till England was nothing but a memory lost to time. America had been his star, England the sky, now the star was gone, leaving behind the sky, and what was a sky without those beautiful, shining stars to light it up? All England had left of that beautiful star was the rabbit, the stupid rabbit, America's stardust.

_If you'll be my boat, I'll be your sea._

_A depth of pure blue just to probe curiosity,_

_Ebbing and flowing, and pushed by a breeze._

_I live to make you free; I live to make you free._

_But you can set sail to the west if you want to,_

_Pass the horizon till I can't even see you._

_Far, from here, where the beaches are wide._

_Just leave me your wake to remember you by._

America had finally done it. His land stretched from sea to shining sea. Atlantic to Pacific. East to West. He had come a long way from those thirteen colonies nestled on the eastern seaboard; he finally had enough space to spread his wings and be who he wanted. England sighed and looked out the window at the Atlantic. America had insisted that his room face the ocean; he wanted to be able to look out over the water as he went to sleep and when he woke up. Even though he knew it was illogical, if he squinted, England was sure that he could see the coastline of the United States on the horizon. Even if he could; however, he wouldn't be able to see the personification of the country, no America was sure to be somewhere on his West Coast now, celebrating on one of his wide open beaches most likely.

England tore his gaze from the window and looked around him. Nothing about the room had changed since its original inhabitant had vacated it in a fit of rage, taking absolutely nothing but his old stuffed rabbit with him, the rabbit had needed to be put back. Even the unwashed clothes remained in the basket and the drawings still hung on the wall. Most were clearly drawn by a child, those were the ones drawn by America himself, when he had been a young colony unwilling to separate himself from his caretaker's side. Some England recognized as his own work, drawn at the same time, on a lazy day in the colonies. Over the years he had been surprised that America would keep them, said that it was foolish to be so sentimental, that they should be thrown away. Every time America had refused. At the time it was a source of constant aggravation for him. Now he was glad that America had kept them. They were all he had left of him. All that America had left in his wake the night he stormed away, past the horizon, until he disappeared from view.

_If you'll be my star, I'll be your sky._

_You can hide underneath me and come out at night._

_When I turn jet black and you show off your light,_

_I live to let you shine; I live to let you shine._

_But you can skyrocket away from me._

_And never come back if you find another galaxy._

_Far from here, with more room to fly,_

_Just leave me your stardust to remember you by._

America was leaving. England's personal star was going to see the real stars. He was going far beyond England, beyond even the sky. Why did that seem so appropriate? America grinned at his former caretaker, the man he was leaving behind.

"Don't miss me to much old man."

_I can't miss you anymore than I already do, don't you see that? _

"As if I would ever miss you."

For a brief second something like hurt flashed across America's face but it was gone so quickly that England though he must have imaged it. America grinned and handed something to England, a small, wooden replica of the Apollo 11 spacecraft, America grinned,

"I figured you'd want a souvenir, made it myself, didn't injure myself making it either."

America saluted casually, then turned, and raced off to the spacecraft that would carry him to the moon; England didn't even have the chance to thank him. England stayed to watch the launch and waited until America was far out of sight before he left. He went back to his house, to America's old room. He opened the old, glass case and withdrew the stuffed rabbit that sat there, from under the bed he pulled out a stack of drawings that hadn't been able to fit on the wall, yet America had still refused to part with, from his pocket he pulled out the little replica America had given him. England collapsed on the bed and cried as he held all he had left of America; all America had left in his wake as he got further and further away from him, all the stardust left from his little star. He buried his face in the pillow and tried to find the familiar sent of America that still lingered. America was in space now; he surely had enough room to fly as far as he wanted. England could only hope that America would remember him, and drag him along for the ride, so that he had more than memories and stardust.

_Stardust to remember you by._


End file.
